Chapter Text
Chapter 1:
The Cat, the Cheesecake, and the Terribly Ill-Advised Plan That Hermione Absolutely Should Have Reconsidered
Listen. Before anyone judges me, understand this:
I have been single for exactly four days.
I spent day one drinking wine and rereading my old Hogwarts essays for comfort. (Nothing soothes heartbreak like academic validation.)
I spent day two making “mistakes” I should have known better than to make. I am the brightest witch of my age, allegedly.
I spent day three entirely blacked out, which I’m choosing to blame on the emotional fallout of day two, rather than the three bottles of elf-made red that were possibly—possibly—supplied to me by Malfoy, but that can’t be right. Surely not.
And day four—today—I decided I was… not well.
My breakup with Ron was “mutual” in the way that only one of us agreed it was. I was pissed. In more ways than one.
So yes. I arrived at the Burrow a little unhinged, one might say.
But I did not intend to ruin their Christmas.
Well—Not originally. But four days ago, Ron Weasley dumped me. For Lavender Brown. And then—then—I learned he had been cheating on me for years.
So what’s a scorned witch to do?
I was, of course, still invited to Christmas Eve dinner. It didn’t matter that Ron had decided breaking up with me five days before Christmas was “the right thing to do, ‘Mione” or that he’d suggested nobly, that “maybe this Christmas it would be best if you didn’t come”.
As if my absence would ease or even erase his guilt.
The Weasleys and Harry are the closest thing to family I had left, and I was not about to let Ronald Weasley exile me from my own found family simply because he’d finally grown a conscience about cheating on me.
“I should have known better than to waste the last six year of my life to a man—“ I mutter as I tear open my closet, immediately become a one-witch hurricane in search for the best “fuck you, you cheating twat” dress I own, “—whose ability,” toss dress, “to justify idiocy,” toss another dress, “could be peer reviewed.”
I freeze when my eyes land on the last dress, shoved in the back of my closet. It’s not even mine. It’s Ginny’s but she forced me to keep it after a drunken night when I tried it on and she declared, “It makes your ass and tits look fantastic.”
My fingers stroke the dark emerald green sparkly velvet fabric, and for a moment, I actually felt something like power warming beneath my skin.
Not letting myself overthink it, I slip the dress on. The velvet hugs every curve like it’s been waiting for this exact moment of vengeance. I swipe on a quick coat of mascara, dab a little lip gloss, and step into my black pumps—simple, classic, entirely inappropriate for confronting an ex and his mistress at Christmas, but I have already decide I don’t care.
When I finally turn to face the mirror, I stop.
For a heartbeat, I don’t recognize myself.
My hair—Merlin, my hair. I haven’t cut it in years, and it spills down my back in a wild, unruly cascade of curls all the way to my hips. It looks like it’s trying to stage a rebellion of its own. The dark emerald dress makes my skin look warmer than I feel, and the shimmer catches the fairy lights flickering behind me.
My gaze snags on a faint bruise low on my neck, absolutely a hickey. I immediately flick my wand to charm it away, cheeks heating. I refuse to think about who put it there. Or why I definitely remember hands in my hair.
I’m going to deal with that little memory…later, just not now.
I tilt my head.
Take myself in.
Let it land.
“I look… good.”
More than good. I look like a woman on the brink—dangerous, heartbroken, determined, and maybe just a bit unhinged.
A grin, sharp and slightly deranged, splits across my face before I can stop it.
“Well,” I murmur to my reflection, “at least if I ruin Christmas, I’ll look fantastic doing it.”
The clock chimes overhead, startling me out of my entirely justified ogling of myself. With a jolt, I grab my favorite peacoat, rush into the kitchen, and scoop up two of my famously loved peppermint cheesecakes.
My eyes catch on the third one—the white chocolate raspberry cheesecake I make for Ron every single year—and for a moment, I freeze.
I shouldn’t bring it.
I shouldn’t even look at it.
I shouldn’t—
A soft thud against my bare calves interrupts my spiraling.
Crookshanks winds between my legs, purring in that distinct, broken-chainsaw rumble of his, and suddenly… I have a plan. A terrible, petty, brilliant plan.
I stack the peppermint cheesecakes on top of Ron’s and crouch to his level.
“You always hated him,” I inform Crookshanks.
He bops his head against mine in agreement, tail flicking with offended dignity.
“Would you like to ruin his evening?” I whisper conspiratorially. His answering purr definitely qualifies as enthusiastic consent.
I scoop him up, grab my wand from the counter, and flick it once, charming the cakes and the wrapped presents to float obediently behind me like festive little soldiers.
Without giving myself a chance to think, I stride onto my front porch, clutch Crookshanks a little tighter, and Apparate straight to the Burrow’s Christmas Eve dinner.